


natural sequel, unnatural beginning

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Age of Sail, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:50:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2139414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon receipt of the elegant letter, Mrs. Holloway read it aloud to her daughter, pronouncing the words slowly and with reverence, as if they were worth the sum of all possible human felicity.</p><p>“Your dear cousin has invited us to dine at Northcourse again!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	natural sequel, unnatural beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adreadfulidea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/gifts).



 

Upon receipt of the elegant letter, Mrs. Holloway read it aloud to her daughter, pronouncing the words slowly and with reverence, as if they were worth the sum of all possible human felicity.

“Your dear cousin has invited us to dine at Northcourse again!”

The summons marked the first time Joan and her mother would meet the new Mrs. Sterling, as the Admiral had been recently married during his last stay in London. While he had always proved most happy company, and evenings at his home very entertaining, his new bride – a brunette slip of a girl, nothing like the late Ramona – was more disagreeable than Joan had anticipated. Although the young woman did not want for beauty or animation, her constant chatter soon proved to be inexhaustible.

“London was a delight,” she persisted in saying to Joan and Mrs. Holloway, as if either lady were unable to conceive of such a fine and pleasurable sphere of existence. “An utter, utter delight! I daresay I have never had such fun in all my life.”

“Pray, Mrs. Sterling,” Joan interjected, directing a curious look toward the crackling fireplace. In front of the mantle stood someone she had not yet encountered at the Admiral's other supper parties: a sandy-haired man wearing dark breeches under a blue frock coat with gold Navy buttons. Officer class. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses was also perched upon his nose. As Joan observed him, he was caught up in examining – with what appeared to be great interest – one of the many novelties displayed on the mantlepiece: a miniature frigate raised inside a large corked glass bottle. “Who is the gentleman in the corner? Is he new to your husband's service?”

“Oh!” Mrs. Sterling put a hand over her mouth as she laughed, and seemed to recover herself after several moments of mirth. “Goodness. I confess, I do not remember that poor man's name.”

Not ten minutes later, Joan was absorbed in conversation with Lieutenant Crane and his wife when came a loud trilling summons in her ear, and a woman's arm suddenly linked with her own. “My dear Mrs. Harris—oh, do excuse us, gentlemen—I shall bring her back to you in just a moment—”

Mrs. Sterling took Joan on a rapid turn of the crowded front parlor before stopping beside her prized pianoforte, where the gentleman from earlier stood before them, a rather confused expression on his face as he beheld their sudden appearance.

“Mrs. Harris, you must allow me to introduce Warrant Officer Pryce, ship's purser. Lieutenant Pryce—” in a voice so sly it made Joan flush at the intended implication— “Mrs. Harris has expressed a desire to meet you.”

Joan managed to retain some semblance of tranquility, and kept her voice as unaffected as was possible, given the embarrassing nature of this particular introduction. She gave a short curtsy. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“Mrs. Harris. A pleasure.” He bowed to her in return. Although his tone was equally polite, if not warm, the perplexed frown had yet to leave his face.

Mrs. Sterling departed their company with a girlish giggle, and for a moment, they fell silent in her absence. Joan watched with rising agitation as the woman – fool of a girl! – relayed whispered words to a nearby group of ladies, and raised a titter of laughter from the assembled party—all while stealing surreptitious glances in Joan's direction. She was making light of a situation which she had deigned to create, perhaps remarking on how amusing it all was—the widow and the hapless ship's purser, forced into each other's company!

Equally discomfiting was the fact that the gentleman at her side seemed attuned to such childish cruelty, and was choosing to ignore the japes—and Joan—in favor of keeping silent, averting his eyes to the keys of the open pianoforte.

Never had Joan felt so angry in her entire life, yet instead of expressing this frustration to the woman in question, or of making some excuse to the man and walking quickly to another section of the party, she turned to her companion with a raised eyebrow, and spoke with new directness. “Not ten minutes after making her acquaintance, and I find myself exhausted by her manners.”

Lieutenant Pryce seemed stunned at finding himself so frankly addressed, and turned to face her. “You mean to say, she is not your—particular friend?” His tone, while careful, seemed not to cast doubt on such a damning character charge.

“She seems determined to make herself ridiculous.” Joan let out a sigh, and adopted a less frosty tone of voice, watching as the gentleman's expression turned slightly more receptive, if not amused. Well, at least she had not offended the man. “Pray, have you worked very long with the Admiral? I do not recall seeing you here before.”

Throughout the evening, it proved surprisingly easy for Joan to make conversation with her new acquaintance. Awkward though he was—gruff at times, a little tongue-tied, and seeming to disapprove of the increasing sensibility of the party around them—he proved to be an intelligent partner in conversation: well-educated, and communicative about his many naval duties and travels. He was to be in Bath for eight weeks, he told Joan over supper, perhaps ten if the Admiral also stayed through the rest of the Season. Overall, it was one of the less painful acquaintances Joan had made during her long stay in Bath. Although, in days following this occasion, what Joan most remembered was the fixed expression of surprise on Mrs. Sterling's face, far across the banquet table, and how she and Lieutenant Pryce had made off rather well, all introductions considered.

**

Several days later, on one cool yet sunny morning, Joan decided to take the air just after breakfast, walking at a brisk pace and intending to go as far as Hanover Square when she spied a familiar face amid the usual bustle on the pavement. The gentleman in question was staring into a large storefront window full of lace cuttings, ribbons, and other hat and bonnet pieces.

She decided, on a whim, to say hello. “Have you taken a sudden interest in notions?”

Lieutenant Pryce seemed embarrassed to be caught lingering at this particular window, but tipped his hat in greeting all the same. His cheeks flushed a blotchy, sanguine red. “Oh—well, no. Simply—making the rounds, you understand. Strictly for accounting purposes.”

She could not help but joke with him again, to put the gentleman at ease. “And how is it that a ship's bursar must be so attuned to the cost of lace and ribbons?”

He began to explain it to her in what was apparently genuine feeling. As part of his duties, he acted as a kind of private broker between the crew and luxury vendors. While many sailors only purchased items such as tobacco, others—often those with a wife, a fiancee, or another beloved waiting for them at home—chose to purchase luxury items more suited to the feminine disposition.

As the conversation lengthened, they were obliged to take a turn around the nearest square, Joan slowing her usual walk in order to maintain an appropriate pace. Stirred by the spring wind, her brown poplin spencer flowed around her dark patent shoes.

“—as such, you understand, the benefit of keeping appraised of these minor costs—silly though they seem—allows me to—well, in truth it ensures no man takes pains to willfully deceive the ship.”

“Useful, considering luxury expenses are deducted from sailor's wages.” She was not wholly unfamiliar with the running of a ship. Her cousin could be most forthcoming after a few tipples, and loved nothing more than to talk about the intricacies of his prized vessels. If the bursar operated as the ship's banker, and the ship itself ran on the profits generated by its voyages, surely the basic principle of money in and out would remain the same. Any positive margins to the budget would need to be maintained, no matter how inconsequential.

A grin crossed his face when Joan spoke these words. She could not help but notice how different the man appeared when he smiled, how much more relaxed he seemed amid the pretty surroundings of the city. The expression lit up his rugged face; it was a look which suited him well.

“Good lord,” he said suddenly, gesturing behind her, toward the directional sign. His smile had not dimmed. “Are we nearly to the high street?”

“What?” cried Joan, whirling around to confirm this prospect. She was shocked to discover they had walked so far, and felt herself a little anxious. “Oh—then I am afraid I must bid you goodbye. My mother will have missed me.” She paused. “Thank you for the turn; it was most diverting.”

“Oh. Yes—of course—you are most welcome.” That little frown had returned to the gentleman's face. Shortly after speaking these words, he opened his mouth as if to make another remark, then quickly shut it, glanced away, and said nothing more. Joan quickly took her leave.

**

Mr. Bertram Cooper, Esq. had his yearly garden party in the Royal Crescent not two weeks following the Admiral's return, and as a former client of his esteemed practice, Joan and her mother were formally invited to partake in the evening's festivities.

“Oh, Joanie,” her mother gushed, as they reached the zenith of the hill leading to the Crescent, saw the handsome row of pale brick houses lit orange by oil lamps in the evening dusk, complemented by the beautiful panorama view to the west. In the distance, two carriages had stopped just across from Mr. Cooper's doorstep, in order to allow their elegant passengers to depart. “Could you imagine living in such splendor? I daresay at your age I should jump at the chance, were the opportunity to present itself.”

Joan caught herself before she could begin to laugh, though no one could see them from the carriage. “Mamma, Mr. Cooper is four score if he is a day, and a dear friend besides—”

“Oh, do not be so facetious,” her mother huffed in reply. “He is still unmarried, you know, and thinks very favorably of you.”

“That is not the same as wanting to be married.” Joan did not challenge her mother's assertion regarding particularity, hoping this would end the conversational thread. The business of Mrs. Holloway's life had once been to see her wed, and now that Joan found herself a widow of nearly two years, that particular maternal purpose seemed to have gained renewed life.

**

Joan spent the first several minutes of the party with Mr. Cooper and a small group of London visitors, with the elder gentleman interested in discussing little but the passage of the latest Appropriations Act. There were also passing remarks made about the weather.

His little lapse in social niceties was to be expected, and as a rule, she was rather used to it. Immediately after her widowhood, she had even found this peculiarity somewhat comforting; it had been easier to speak to Mr. Cooper about the particulars of legacies and annuities than about personal loss, which she had communicated expressly when the lawyer once tried to offer pity on her behalf. Hence, the gentleman had continued to indulge her in these matters, long after her husband's death. She had since gained a great deal of appreciation for financial law, and the conversations had even helped her in running her household besides.

Mrs. Holloway, on the other hand, had long since wandered off in disgust to find more agreeable gossip. After half an hour, Joan excused herself in an attempt to find her mother. She walked into the back garden, imagining the woman in animated discussion with some unhappy dowager, when she saw Lieutenant Pryce standing alone very near the doorway, surveying the party guests and looking miserable, as if he wished he were elsewhere.

She greeted him instead, surprised. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“Oh—” he seemed very distracted, “well, the Admiral—our party was due to have arrived by now, but I was—rather delayed, and rode separate. Have they not come?”

“I have not yet seen them,” she admits, slanting him a mournful look of commiseration. Terrible to be left alone at a party where you know no other guests. “Perhaps they are equally delayed.”

His gaze was fixed on the card table standing several meters to their left, underneath the small covered veranda, where two additional chairs sat empty across from a husband and wife pair. Joan had met the young man at that table at a party two years past, just before her own husband's passing; he was one of Cooper's wealthiest associates. They seemed not to be occupied in any current game.

“I daresay the Campbells will not mind if we sit down with them for a moment.”

The gentleman's answer held a clear note of curiosity. “Do you—intend to start a game?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Would you play quadrille?”

**

“Heavens. Well, I suppose I mustn't pass,” Mrs. Campbell put down a two of clubs, with a heavy sigh. Clearly, the cards in her hand were not to her satisfaction.

Mr. Campbell put down a king of clubs, then silently examined the dark blue counters in the basket versus those at his hand, as if already calculating his takings for the round.

Joan turned her attention to her own cards. In the first trick, she had named the trump suit diamonds and called for an alliance with their king _._ Since then, she had not inquired as to the identity of her ally, although had a clear suspicion as to who it was. Mrs. Campbell, it seemed, had bad luck on her side, and had lost all five rounds previous. Mr. Campbell had won the first and second, and played with great gusto throughout, but seemed as if he had originally wished to bid a _vole_.

On the other hand, Mr. Pryce—Lieutenant, she endeavored to correct—had quietly assisted Joan with the trick-taking ever since her beg, and with his help, she had won the last three turns. This was the sixth. Although she ought to have asked her ally unmasked himself the moment she realized his true nature, by now the secret had become too much fun to reveal.

She placed her last trump card onto the table, revealing Punto—the ace of diamonds.

“Well, now I am corrected as to where it has been all this time! I was sure Mr. Campbell was holding it. He does so like to save the matadors.”

“He has played well, to be sure.” Joan gave Mrs. Campbell's remark a perfunctory smile, and turned to her elder hand, trying not to seem overly expectant.

“ _Hombre_ ,” the Lieutenant said upon meeting her playful gaze, betraying no humor in his expression except that contained in his blue eyes, which seemed to dance behind his glasses. “May I?” 

Joan lets out a delighted laugh. She had hoped he would be the one to speak. “Yes.”

With a huff of satisfaction, he put down the  _manille_ .

“Excellent play. Well done.” Mr. Campbell extended a hand for the other gentleman to shake.

“Well, I shall distribute the payments,” Joan pronounced, reaching for the full counters basket and favoring Mr. Pryce with another pleased smile.

After the game was finished, the Campbells excused themselves from the table, and the arrangements were put back to rights. Joan was sipping at her glass of punch when Mr. Pryce finally turned to her with a hesitant expression, and cleared his throat. “I have heard—that there is to be a concert on the first weekend of next month—a small performance—and wished to inquire if you might possibly be in attendance. If you—enjoyed that sort of event.” A pause. “I do not believe the Admiral is interested in such things.”

Joan set aside her glass, and kept her reply careful, not certain if this was a direct invitation to attend said concert or an indication that he merely wanted to see a familiar face at the event. “My mother and I had planned to be in attendance, yes.”

He favored her with another grin, and Joan could not help but flush under his attentions, suddenly very aware of their close proximity amid the absence of most other guests. When the Lieutenant spoke, his voice was light, as if he had been buoyed by her affirmative response. “I—well, must admit, I am glad to hear it.”

**

They lingered within the concert hall even after the program had ended, even as most of the other attendees had filed out into the lobby in search of tea, or their hats and coats. Mr. Pryce soon made the reason for this awkward dawdling very clear. “Mrs. Harris, I wondered if you would do me the honor of—allowing me to escort you home.”

Joan was pleased to hear the invitation. “Of course. I shall inform my mother directly.”

When she was apprised of this news in a more private corridor, Mrs. Holloway laughed outright, seeming more delighted than her daughter, should any unknown party have observed their conversation. “You see? I had a premonition he would do, especially as he spoke to you so assiduously during the interval! Well, I shall see if Miss Chambers can fetch me home. Think no more about it, Joanie; she has a very pleasing manner, as you know.”

Joan did not spare much thought for poor Miss Chambers in any case, but when the gentleman's curricle finally arrived at the step and Mr. Pryce assisted her inside—his hand gently supporting hers as she stepped up into the box—she could not think of anything else save for the happy way her stomach had jumped at the physical contact.

Now that they were alone together, the silence only filled by the click and clack of hooves and carriage wheels against pavement stones, Mr. Pryce seemed more anxious than before. “Did you—have a favorite selection?” he finally asked, after they had spent more than a minute staring out opposite windows. “From the program?”

“The sonata played at the end was very beautiful,” Joan said, immediately thinking of the third movement, the length and intricacy of the piece, how moving it was. “Beethoven is so talented.”

He seemed surprised. “Did you not think it sad? The tone of the piano was so melancholy when it was first begun.”

“I admit that is true, yet did you not believe the last few minutes to be more uplifting?” she challenged, somewhat teasing. “I should not call the piece happy by any means, but by the end it felt as if its tenor had become somewhat changed.”

“Hm.” He seemed to be considering this assertion very carefully. Joan continued speaking.

“Are you not curious as to what inspired such a marked transition?”

The Lieutenant glanced away from her for a moment, as if to hide another furtive expression. She could still glimpse the pleasing features of his face, thrown into sharp relief by the passing oil lamps and bright moonlight streaming in from the carriage windows. “I do not think you should want my opinion on composition, Mrs. Harris. I am not considered musical by any means.”

“Oh, Mr. Pryce, do not imagine I am only asking you in jest. The ability to arrange complex melodies is a remarkable skill; one which I myself do not possess. But have you not wondered what spark of instinct takes root in such composers, which allows them to produce their beautiful music? To what or to whom their thoughts often turn, which makes them so melancholy?”

His voice turned gentle. “You sound as if you think of it often.”

“I do,” she said, and met his gaze again. “Taking the performances is one of my favorite pastimes. They do not happen often enough for my tastes.”

“I had thought—” and here, he hesitated, “well—I—had assumed you would enjoy the...social nature of a ball much more than a concert. But there were no public dances scheduled, and I should not have—been able to ask you to stand up with me. At—at the private ones.”

Joan felt heat blossom across her face and chest. She was very aware of the intent way in which he examined her now; the way her spring-green gown set off her handsome figure, even in the low light. “You wished to dance with me?”

She thought now about what he would be like as a dancing partner, whether he would move as fluidly and confidently in the halls as she was currently imagining, or whether his natural reticence would prevent him from attaining the prolonged elegance needed for the steps.

“Most ardently,” he said in a gruff voice, leaning forward to clasp her hand—but the carriage jostled over an uneven cluster of cobblestones, and within moments she found herself held in the gentleman's arms! It had been so long since Joan had experienced such intimate contact with any man, much less a man who wished to court her hand, and the feelings of excitement this produced were almost overpowering. Mr. Pryce seemed to feel equally as overcome by his own passions—within seconds, he had moved to capture her lips with his own, and they shared a long kiss that only came to an end because he found the good sense to pull back from their heedless embrace.

“Joan,” he breathed, as he opened his eyes to look at her. The word was a whisper which belied the earlier fervor of his caresses. Joan felt herself shake for the sudden loss of sensation, although his palms were still pressed firmly against her back and waist, as were hers against the planes of his shoulders. So misplaced were her wits that she could not yet reply.

He quickly released her. “I—forgive me. I—I did not intend—”

Her heart could be felt to hammer violently in her chest, although when she spoke, it was propitiously calm. “No—I am not offended.”

They did not speak much for the rest of the journey home, though she did take care to maintain a proper distance once they alighted from the carriage. He clasped her waist again while saying goodnight. She did not keep him from taking that brief liberty.

**

“You are aware that I was married before,” said Joan, as they turned left facing the Roman bathhouses, walking slowly toward the cathedral, whose elaborate face sparkled in the mid-morning sun. For now, she could not take the Lieutenant's arm, much as she wished otherwise. “But we have not spoken often of my son.”

The concert had taken place two days prior to this particular outing, and while there had not yet been an outright proposal of marriage, they had since taken supper with a group at the Admiral's home, and arranged today's long walk through the heart of the city. She was not so insecure a woman as to expect an immediate offer from a gentleman, particularly considering this would be her second engagement, but she did worry there might be some issue over the baby, despite Lane's clear partiality for her company, and hers for him. “George is still young. Barely even three years, if you recall.”

She resolved to speak a little more about that topic at length—of what could be expected from such a young child—but just as she had opened her mouth to speak, and looked to her left, the gentleman had stopped on the pavement, in order to retrieve an object from his inner jacket pocket. He handed this item to Joan, then stepped back to her side, even as he indicated they did not need to resume walking in order for her to examine this thing.

It was a small illustration done on heavy cream paper, the picture no larger than the face of a folded letter. Yet it was creased twice along the center, as if it had been carried often and become worn from constant attention. Joan could feel the roughness of the paper turned thin and wispy under her fingertips. From the picture, a young boy's face, sketched in thin black pencil, stared up at her, perhaps no more than six or seven years old. He had his father's distinctive brow, but seemed to favor his mother in many other respects.

“That was done up many years ago,” he admitted. “At the moment, he's apprenticed to a law clerk in London. Nearly fifteen, now.” He raked a hand across the back of his neck. “Nigel would not need to live—well, with us, but I—should like to see another child in the house. I have always wished for others.”

The hopeful expression on his face suggested Lane was now thinking of a third child, and perhaps even a fourth, and the many ways in which he might endeavor to get one on her as soon as they were wed. She ought not to have encouraged such inappropriate imaginings in daylight, walking as they were in the middle of the high street. But still Joan smiled warmly at the Lieutenant, one fingertip tracing over the features of the boy's face before handing the prized portrait back to its owner. Their fingers brushed again with the exchange of paper, and she suppressed a small shiver, though she was not cold.

“He has a sweet face. You must be proud.”

“Oh—well, I suppose so, yes. But pray, we shall endeavor not to let the little one feel left out, hm?”

Joan pressed one gloved hand to her mouth to conceal a giggle, and they fell back into step.

**

“Letter for you, sir.”

Admiral Sterling plucked the envelope from the silver tray with one hand, thanked Willoughby for it, and broke the seal, still absorbed in the last of his breakfast. He took another bite of his toast, scanning the words and trying very hard not to laugh at the information this missive contained—

_Must inform you I am gone up to London to be married—Mrs. Holloway has given her enthusiastic consent—shall obtain the license in town and stay several days in St. John's Wood. Will plan to meet you at the Admiralty on the twenty-first May at ten o'clock in the morning, as previously discussed. Remain your faithful servant, Lane Pryce._ Et cetera.

The Admiral pursed his mouth. Ay, well, he supposed Joanie always did appreciate the intelligent fellows. And Pryce had consistently sought her company throughout his visit here, to the point of receiving more than a few japes from members of their party. Christ, he supposed he would be seeing much more of his cousin, now that she was wife to one of his most necessary officers. And likely her mother, too.

He let out a snort of laughter, which drew his lady wife's attention from the arduous task of stirring sugar into her porridge. He did not waste time with tomfoolery. “Pryce and my cousin Mrs. Harris are to be married.”

There was a drawn-out pause. Jane stared at him with an open mouth, eyes comically wide, as if he had leapt up onto the sideboard and recited a line of sonnets. Granules of white sugar were still falling from her spoon, now sprinkling onto her portion of eggs.  _“What?”_

The Admiral lifted one shoulder in a shrug, and took another bite of his toast. Damn. Far too dry. “Had word. They've gone up to London.”

“To be married,” she said again, slowly, as if she had somehow misheard his earlier remark. “Are you quite certain?”

He did laugh then, at the charming bewilderment on her face. “Pass the marmalade, Mrs. Sterling?”

 

_epilogue_

 

“Good god,” Lane rolled onto his back with a noise like a wheeze, wrung out with happiness, caught between the urge for helpless laughter and the need to be silent, to gather both his breath and his wits. He glanced to his right to better observe his wife—his wife!—saw her red hair tousled wildly across the pillow, her face, neck, and chest damp, and still flushed deeply from their satisfying exertions.

“Shall we dance again, husband?” she asked, playful but still very breathless, and giggling slightly as she reached out to clasp his hand beneath the flimsy sheet. “Only I have reserved you several places on my card.”

He could not help but join in this laughter at witnessing her continued boldness, and found he loved her more with every passing moment. “Oh, do go on, then.”

Joan rolled over and kissed him deeply, and he found he could not resist her renewed attentions, moving to embrace her in his arms once more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt is as follows: "age of sail AU, any combo of characters + pairings you like," while the title is taken from a quote in Jane Austen's _Persuasion_ : "She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning."
> 
> A few notes. This was set in Bath, which is a gorgeous English city featured in many an Austen novel. The [Royal Crescent](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d2/Bath_royal_crescent.jpg), Hanover Square, the Roman baths, and the cathedral are all real places. [Quadrille](http://www.davidparlett.co.uk/histocs/quadrill.html) is not only an elaborate eighteenth-century ballroom dance, but a type of card game usually favored by women. Additionally, the Beethoven piece I referenced is Sonata No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106, the _Hammerklavier_ , which can be heard[ here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Beethoven,_Piano_Sonata_No._29_in_B-flat_Major,_Op._106_Hammerklavier_-_III._Adagio_sostenuto.ogg).
> 
> Also also: I meant to work Peggy, Stan, and the rest of team creative into the fic, but my headcanon is that they're all pirates somewhere around the British West Indies. Or Peggy's a Catholic missionary schoolteacher who dreams of freedom, while Stan is the midshipman who romances her. Go figure. XD


End file.
